I am a songstress with
a bemused violin by my side.
A tightly knit sweater, I wear
as a drape, to hide the body
that bears the weight of
On a chilly night, in a hotel room
Pensive, I look at my notes from
Notes that have emerged from the
shame of a cracked voice,
the notes that have spilled as
I coughed out a little blood.
My violin, I have carried my voice with it
through the shrubs of suburbs, where the
prickly leaves scratched my ears.
Out of tune I went, and the sober village took its turn,
the rustling leaves on the narrow roads
Only spoke in an unheard metronome,
As I walked among sheets of unfinished
Down the aisle I went too, with Peter pan.
He never grew up, so we settled in
an immature city, which we didn't know
how to take care of.
I took the liberty of walking out of that home.
I took the liberty of sharing a tune,
With a pedestrian or two.
The coins flew into my hat,
And I sat with a violin's numbing laughter
by my side,
As a night owl, a nocturnal poet
A warbling bird,
recycling sheets of unwritten music.
I don't know when my notes found home
in hotel rooms.
I don't know when my violin, had been left stranded
among some ' Do not Disturb' signs,
dangling from the door.
I am a songstress, with a bemused violin
by my side.
I am a songstress, writing my last letter to
Protiti Rasnaha Kamal's writings have been published in The Daily Star, Daily Observer, Dhaka Tribune and The Bombay Review. She is a graduate of Mount Holyoke College, USA.